"Foster, Alan Dean - SS3 - The Day of the Dissonance" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)

the arched passageway toward the next chamber, bending
low to clear the sill. He was so much taller than most of
the inhabitants of this world that his height was an ever-
present problem.

Something shattered and there was another high-pitched
curse. He held his ramwood staff protectively in front of
him as he emerged into the storeroom.

It was as spacious as Clothahump's bedroom and the
other chambers which somehow managed to coexist within
the trunk of the old oak. Pots, tins, crates, and beakers full
of noisome brews were carefully arranged on shelves and
workbenches. Several bottles lay in pieces on the floor.

Standing, or rather weaving, in the midst of the break-
age was Sorbl, Clothahump's new famulus. The young
great homed owl stood slightly over three feet tall. He
wore a thin vest and a brown and yellow kilt of the Ule
Clan.

He spotted Jon-Tom, waved cheerily, and fell over on
his beak. As he struggled to raise himself on flexible
wingtips, Jon-Tom saw that the vast yellow eyes were
exquisitely bloodshot.

"Hello, Sorbl. You know who I am?"

The owl squinted at him as he climbed unsteadily to his
feet, staggered to port, and caught himself on the edge of
'the workbench.

6

Alan Dean Foster

"Shure I remember you," he said thickly. "You... you're
that spielsunger... spoilsanger. ..."

"Spellsinger," Jon-Tom said helpfully.

"Thas what I said. You're that what I said from another
world that the master brought through to hulp him against
the Pleated Filk."

"The master is not feeling well." He put his staff aside.
"And you're not looking too hot either."

"Hooo, me?" The owl looked indignant, walked away
from the bench wavering only slightly. "I am perfectly